


you know you might surprise yourself

by hamiltrashed



Series: The Room Where It Happens [3]
Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, First place award for Most Emotionally Introspective Masturbation Scene?, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy, Showers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 02:40:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6452236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamiltrashed/pseuds/hamiltrashed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas spends a little too much time in the shower, thinking about Hamilton in a multitude of different ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you know you might surprise yourself

**Author's Note:**

> The third part and second interlude between the first fic and the sequel. This sort of serves as the second side of the same coin with regards to the part before this. 
> 
> Bless my darling beta, Michelle_A_Emerlind for being the greatest as always. Best of muffins. <3

Jefferson’s back is red, but he hasn’t tried to look before now. He’s felt it, of course, but he’s simply been relishing the way it stings just a little when he settles back into his chair at work. He’s not even sure if Alexander knows what he’s done, if he knows the way, in the midst of the ecstasy and desperation, in the midst of his back arching away from the bed, his hands grasping at Jefferson, he’d dug his short nails into Jefferson’s back, dragged down and scratched him all to hell. From another man, Jefferson wouldn’t have tolerated this, would have demanded that it stop at the first sign of it. But from Alexander… well, Jefferson finds it hard to admit, but there’s a certain part of him that _likes_ it, that likes knowing when he leans back and feels that telltale twinge, Alexander is the one who left that lasting reminder of their most recent encounter.

And so Jefferson cranes his neck around to look in the mirror, tries to get a good look at the marks along his back. They run from his shoulders almost all the way down to his ass, like some perverted imitation of angel wings, and even though they’re two nights old, they still look fresh. Alexander didn’t break skin, didn’t draw blood, but if Jefferson places a hand over his shoulder, feels out the edges of the scratches, they’re still raised, swollen and aching. He’s never been one for all that sadism stuff, but this arouses more than pains him. For all the ways that Jefferson took and did not give, Alexander left him with this mark of whatever he believes he took in return. And maybe he took more than Jefferson realises.

Because Jefferson does not want to admit this to himself either, but his entire life has been built upon the idea of being right all the time, of not even admitting to the mere _idea_ that he could ever be wrong. Then along came Hamilton, with his smart mouth always going off like a cannon, firing volleys with all the rapidity of a speeding train going off the rails. Alexander, with his shy smile, ever contrasted with the death glares he is capable of returning whenever Jefferson gives him one. Alexander, with his goddamn good ideas, reaching for a platform from which to proclaim them much harder than anyone has ever reached to Jefferson’s knowledge.

Jefferson hates him for it, even if he’s not all that willing to acknowledge that this hatred might be rooted in the fact that he himself has never strived like this, in the guilt of never needing to. Things have always been handed to him upon his first request, or without ever asking at all; it’s no wonder Alexander would be bitter about it. And maybe that’s why Jefferson dropped a word about Alexander in Washington’s ear and watched the way Washington’s trust in him worked in Alexander’s favour. And maybe _that’s_ why Alexander is still offering himself up; first out of some need to both conquer and be conquered, and now out of… repayment?

Jefferson hopes it’s not repayment. No matter what he tells Alexander, he doesn’t want him to feel any pressure to give himself like money for services rendered. As much as Alexander likely believes that Jefferson did him this favour because he’s expecting something back, he didn’t. ...How to tell him so without the same look of smug satisfaction finding its way to Alexander’s lips just the way it is ever present on his own? Only now is he starting to understand that he can’t have his cake and also feast on it. Or, in this case, he cannot keep sipping from the well of Alexander Hamilton and letting the worst parts of him try to devour the poor boy whole. He can’t keep letting himself not even give Alexander an inch out of fear that he’ll take a mile; nobody’s ever deserved the mile as much as Alexander does.

Jefferson turns back to face himself in the mirror and frowns for allowing himself to think about all of this, to _feel_ all of these things. He’s not good with emotions that don’t center around anger, annoyance, frustration. He’s not good with feeling anything real, anything nice. After all, what goes up must eventually come down. Allowing himself to be happy, to enjoy, to build a castle of cards up like a cathedral, is merely inviting the inevitable collapse, the sadness, the goddamn broken heart.

So instead of feeling, of thinking about the _potential_ to feel, he turns to the shower and gets it going, hot as he can stand it, and steps under the spray, letting the door shut with a snap behind him. And without hesitation, even with the hot water barreling down his back making him wince, he sinks against the wall and curls one hand around his cock.

 _This will be good_ , he promises himself, humming softly at the way he swells in his own palm. _You know damn well your own hand can get you going ten times better than Alexander any day_.

But he can’t get away with it that easily. The moment he lets his eyes close, the moment he blocks out reality, it’s so easy to conjure an image of Alexander in his mind. He thinks of the soft-but-lean curve of his hips, his ass, the way he’d like to lick all the way down his spine and bite at the backs of his thighs, the way he’d really _kiss_ him if Alexander would give him the chance (as if Jefferson’s given him reason to). It almost feels like he’s there, right beside him, in front of him, wet and eager and settling into his arms. For a second, it’s innocent: Jefferson imagines running his hands through Alexander’s hair, twisting the dripping ends around his fingers and tugging his head back so their mouths slot together just right. And just as quickly, it’s no longer innocent.

In his mind’s eye, Alexander kisses him filthy, dirty, all tongue and no backing down. Jefferson can almost feel the pressure of his mouth right this second. And God, he can’t wrap his head around how badly he wants to just _fuck_ Alexander. Of course, he’s already done it several times, so it’s not a matter anymore of adding the man to some kind of list and checking him off. But it’s the fact that this list exists at all, that before now, no name has appeared on it twice, and here he is craving a seventh encounter, a tenth, a hundredth. He leans hard into the shower wall, lets the water race down his skin, lets his thoughts run wild. 

Jefferson would get his mouth on him, _all_ of him, suck his cock until he couldn’t bear it, give him the treat of eating him out and listen to him whine for it. Because Alexander would – he’d whine and moan and gasp and beg, even if he didn’t want to. And then maybe he’d give as good as he’d get. Maybe he’d let Jefferson fuck his mouth, think for just a second about coming all over his tongue before he’d decide to fuck his ass instead and not just those pretty lips. Alexander would look up from his knees, beg with those gorgeous brown eyes for more, more, _please_ more.

Jefferson would oblige. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d tease Alexander first, get him on his back and just touch him, run his hands across every bare inch of him. He’d touch everywhere but where it counts until Alexander’s tongue cracked like a whip, snapping at him like always to just fuck him already, as if he has better places to be. But Jefferson knows the truth. No more than he has anywhere else he’d like to be, Alexander doesn’t either, and to act like he does is merely meant to mask just how badly he wants it (pot, meet kettle).

 _Should have woken him up_ , Jefferson tells himself. _Shouldn’t have let him stay asleep on his desk. Should’ve fucked him on it. Should’ve brought him here and kept him awake all damn night_. But it’s too late for that, so Jefferson lets himself continue.

He strokes slow but hard, fist tight around himself, imagining it’s Alexander. It’s not quite as tight no matter how hard he grips, doesn’t quite do the trick, but it’s good enough just to fantasise, to rock his hips forward and pretend it’s him. Face down, ass in the air, he’d grind back on Jefferson, do everything but scream for it. Oh, there’d be the temptation to let go of all the sounds he would hold back, but he wouldn’t. He’d let the moans come easy like a soft caress in the dark, but he’d keep the little growls to himself, the animal sounds that come from the wild thing inside him that he only barely keeps reigned in. Jefferson has something beastlike inside him too, would know his own kind when he sees one. But Alexander lacks control, says so much and keeps in so little. So it mesmerises Jefferson that he’s managed this long to keep it all locked away, let it slip only the once, when he’d raked his nails along Jefferson’s back and staked a territorial claim on him.

For his part, Jefferson _can’t_ stay quiet. Not now. He lets moans of his own echo around the shower, bouncing off the walls and sounding annoyingly needy to his own ears. He’d like it if he could at least maintain the illusion for now. Unprepared to deal with the extent of his own desires, sudden as they are and new as they feel, he would just like to pretend for as long as possible. And so he swipes precome from the head of his cock, licks it off his fingers, and tells himself that what he’s been doing is fucking a man like any other. He tells himself the only reason Alexander gets the pleasure of enjoying his company more frequently than the other men with whom Jefferson has had dalliances is that he’s got a tighter ass, a lovelier face, and longer hair that Jefferson can pull while he thrusts into him hard enough for it to be read on a Richter scale.

The next time he does it, it’ll just have to be even more impersonal than it’s been. A little hateful, just like always, a little bit fun, just like always. He won’t do any of the things he’s thinking about here. He’ll reinforce the ideas that sucking Alexander off, that eating his ass, that even entertaining the thought that he would let Alexander top, is far outside the unwritten terms of this agreement they have. Ludicrous beyond reason. Alexander will take what he can get or get nothing at all. And Jefferson tells himself that this is all true, that should Alexander indicate a wish for more, he’ll be able to put an end to the whole affair, that he’ll put Alexander at arm’s length and keep him there.

So he makes a deal with himself right there in the shower, halfway to an orgasm and nowhere near wanting to come yet. He’ll stay frosty with him, but here… in here… well, isn’t this the place to let it all go? Won’t the sin of wanting Alexander the way he does be washed down the drain in the end? Won’t the hot water rinse him clean, make him pure and forgiven, or does he need a priest for that? (Jefferson’s pretty sure he knows a man of the cloth that would be amenable to getting fucked in his shower; that’d give a whole new meaning to holy water and entering the priesthood.)

Nevertheless, he strikes this bargain with himself, and all bets are off for the present moment in the second that he does. He lets his thoughts turn back to Alexander, considers for just a moment what it might be like if he let him take charge. Jefferson knows that he’s taller, bigger than him, but there’s a ferocity about Alexander that would lend itself well to getting Jefferson just where he wants him. He likes to think he’d make it hard for him, but maybe it’d be as easy as a heated kiss, a touch in the right place, a hastily whispered half-romantic word or two that would make him just as quick to give it up as any boy he’s ever met.

Jefferson’s hand moves faster now. He tries to keep pace with his racing thoughts, but it’s almost impossible. He lets the other hand drift upward along his chest, and his fingertips brushing across one nipple is enough to make his hips jolt forward. He whispers a stream of curses, of Alexander’s name, of meaningless words and phrases he’s not quite sure are in any known language at all. It’s useless babble on his tongue, because there aren’t words to express desire of this kind. Of any kind, really. One can say that they want, they need, they wish for, they must have – yet, none of these sentiments really expresses just how deep a longing can go. Except that Jefferson is feeling it now, allowing himself to fuck his own fist and yearn for something he _won’t_ actually allow. Someday, scientists will study just how fucking pathetic he is in this moment.

Jefferson lets out an unbidden growl, a throaty groan of need. There’s no rhythm to it anymore, to the way he drags his fingertips along the underside of his cock, squeezes the head in the tight circle of his fist, palm sticky with thick droplets of precome that he spreads along his length. His eyes are shut so tight now that he’s seeing little pinpricks of light, and his hips jerk a little too eagerly for his taste, but he can’t control it. He’s suspended here, between moments of mere enjoyment where it’s just him and his hand, and image after image of Alexander that frustrate him beyond belief and make his blood boil with hate and lust and anger and how fucking _necessary_ that goddamn kid is becoming. Don’t they say in death that your life flashes before your eyes? Jefferson can’t figure out what the hell it means for him when Alexander, his enemy, his fuck buddy, his _whatever_ is cycling through his mind like Jefferson invited him to live there.

But that’s what gets him there in the end. The thought that for all intents and purposes, despite the fact that he and Alexander are not exclusive in any sense of the word, that they are each a part of the other’s world. That Jefferson can continue to have. That whatever choices he makes with regards to how he interacts with Alexander, he can still work the antsy feeling out of his system with a good fuck and a verbal sparring match with him. And even though he’s not entirely sure how to make sense of it, to reconcile every emotion with another, that’s what sends him spiralling over the edge. Imagining Alexander under him, on top of him – wherever, just always _with_ him – makes his legs shake and his muscles tighten.

And it’s fucking _good_ , this orgasm. His back arches as it works its way through every inch of him, and Jefferson’s hand slams against the wall, grasping for anything to hold onto, knocking the shelf in the corner off the wall and sending an inordinate amount of hair products scattering across the shower floor. It empties him in every sense of the word, and he watches as the water carries his obsession down the drain. And for a moment, his mind is blissfully blank of everything – of Alexander, of every thought and feeling except _yesgoodperfect_. For a moment, Jefferson imagines that he really is free of this, that he needn’t worry any longer about something as overrated as emotion. Until he slumps back against the wall and again feels the sweet ache of the marks along his back.

And just like that, he knows damn well that this isn’t over. Not even close.

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from the song "Surprise Yourself" by Jack Garratt.


End file.
